Ah memories.
I remember visiting one dark winter night - I watched one motorist stop his car on the way out to pull the windshield protector thingy off of another car. Clearly he thought it looked a nifty idea in place on de-icing his own windscreen and decided to make off with it.
Then there's the time I got to the car, didn't like the ice cream and flung the cone out of my window. That's what I thought, anyway. I discovered the next morning that my aim is shit, and I'd actually flung the bastard thing into the back seat and all over the parcel shelf.
Sadly, Ikea is not conducive to your mental health when you decide to stop medication for bipolar and decide to go just after new year.
The last time I visited Ikea, I ended up taking a total flaky mid-marketplace, becoming a shrewish harridan that was determined to drive the trolley into the ankle of any fucker who stood between me and the bistro. I had just finished a night shift the night before and had persuaded my mum to take me (because I was off my lithium and was flying high).
I just about remember trying to be seductive with the young and rather handsome man in yellow at the checkout (I swear lifting flatpack all day must've made him seem attractive in my unmedicated state), making lewd remarks about wanting to see his meatballs if he could handle my heaving bags, and my mother marching me out of the store by the arm in horror.
When I was still assembling the bastard Malm chest of drawers at almost half past eleven that night, I'd worked myself into a total lather and ended up at out of hours in a full blown bout of mania. The association (and the thought of Mr Yellow Six-Pack remembering me) has put me off ever going back.